


when the last note dies

by americantoinette



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Amadeus (1984), Mozart l'Opéra Rock - Mozart/Baguian & Guirao
Genre: Creative Liberty is taken here, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Slow Build, also ps emperor joseph wasnt a dumbass you'll see, at least for most of it, might change warnings/ratings as it goes along, not saying every detail is accurate but im trying, working with the historical timeline
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-10-14 17:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17512550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/americantoinette/pseuds/americantoinette
Summary: Antonio Salieri's years in Vienna have always touched on the subject of Wolfgang Mozart, the child prodigy and later popular composer. Though his talents are enough for the public and Emperor alike, Salieri finds himself in Mozart's brilliant shadow. Yet, for genius to reside in such an obscene man - how can Salieri tolerate it?





	1. 1768.

The shake of the carriage did nothing to settle his nerves - Salieri could taste the excitement on his tongue, and attempted to compose himself. Still, his master saw the way his fingers danced on his knees, how his eyes flitted about, watching passerby in the streets.

Gassmann, a most pleasant man, though his health was unpredictable, chuckled, and stilled the dancing hand with his own. “My dear boy, something’s clouding up your head. Is it any of your lessons?” A smile was at the corners of his mouth - he must know what excited his student so.

Salieri blushed, and shook his head. “No, maestro, it- well,” He straightened his posture, though it was useless in such a vehicle. “Is it true? That Leopold Mozart has brought his son to Vienna?” Of course he’d heard of the child prodigy, having already charmed the court some years before. Yet now Salieri had a fair chance of seeing him, hearing him. Genius captured his interest - he was far too old at seventeen to be considered a prodigy, though Gassmann time and time again spoke of a grand future.

At his question, Gassmann’s smile flattened, and he used his walking stick to balance as he leaned forward to his ward. “The boy’s talent cannot be denied, that much is true. But as for his father- he’s in it for the money, I tell you! Thrusting your child into a culture such as the one surrounding opera - I care not for Leopold Mozart, Antonio. Forgive a man for his judgement.”

Salieri shook his head. “No, sir, I understand.” He believed he did, anyway. Nothing much was known of the father, though he’d also apparently peddled off his daughter’s talents at the harpsichord, as well. There already were rumors swirling that Leopold wished his son to write an opera in Vienna, for Vienna. Could Wolfgang Mozart compose at such an age?

Salieri _ached_ to do so, but he kept his works secret, for now. They were truly nothing, simply using the same librettos as Gassmann and Gluck had, comparing his compositions to his mentors’. As for Mozart’s capabilities - who knew?

He rubbed his hands together, palms clammy. “When he performs at court next…” He was too shy to ask for anything, as Gassmann already gave him so much.

“Of course, my boy!” Gassmann’s countenance brightened, and it did soothe Salieri’s unfounded anxiety. “I’ll be sure to show you off proper, and I don’t doubt Emperor Joseph would be pleased at your presence, either.”

His ears grew hot - upon Salieri’s first introduction to the co-ruler, he’d been flustered (and fifteen) and improperly addressed him as “Your Excellency.” It truly was the biggest embarrassment of Salieri’s life, so far. He was certain nothing could top it; he hoped nothing could…

“But, maestro,” Salieri gently began, “The Empress…”

Gassmann shook his head. “Ah, never mind her. She’s not as fond of the arts as Joseph, it’s likely she won’t be there.”

Maria Theresa, Holy Roman Empress, frightened Salieri to an extent he felt many others shared. There was something about her that was nowhere near as pleasant as Emperor Joseph.

The carriage came to a rather abrupt stop, and Gassmann beat on the roof with his stick. “I’m an old man, good sir! There’s no need for your foolish driving!” Their door opened, and Salieri scurried to get out, taking his hat off as soon as he stepped on solid ground. He assisted his master on stepping down, Gassmann crossly telling the coachman what was what.

Salieri made to head into the opera before a hand at his shoulder stopped him.

“Antonio, were you in a state this evening? Your hair is unsightly!” Even though he often complained of pains in his fingers, Gassmann deftly untied Salieri’s skewed hair ribbon and set to fixing what errors he saw. Salieri, being rather tall, awkwardly leaned back, though affection overcame any embarrassment.

“There we have it. Now, before you go racing in there like a regular heathen, help your dear teacher with his balance.”

Salieri was obliged to hold on to Gassmann’s arm, anxious as he was to get inside.

There were no Mozarts in sight, however. Salieri was a touch disappointed, yet he took his seat at the harpsichord with the same thrill in his chest as always. Compared to a child genius, to play the part of continuo was nothing, but it was Salieri’s introduction to the world of opera. He would not have otherwise gotten to witness the preparations that went into each premiere, each opera’s first performance of the season. Conductors could direct everyone til they were red and hoarse. Singers could be the haughtiest of creatures. Everything was taken personally, straight to the ego. A mere misstep in speech could destroy everything; here, manners and vague words kept everyone happy, much like court etiquette.

Salieri observed, and learned a great deal from these observations.

Gluck was to premiere a new opera within a few days, and Gassmann was delighted to see how it may cause ripples through the community. Salieri was curious as well, since many of Gluck’s works proved to be popular with audience and critics, while remaining clever and well-constructed. There was no doubt that the Mozarts would, at least, be at the premiere.

The prima donna slapped her co-star with her prop fan, and Director Affligio put his face in his hands.

The opera truly was vulgarity made refined, and Salieri sought to polish it wholly.

 

His ink had not yet dried on his score when Gassmann came into his room. Salieri immediately rose, scraping his chair along the floor, and tried to hide his work with his body. “Ah, maestro-”

Gassmann’s brows were raised. “Do you really believe you’ll be punished for doing what I brought you to Vienna for?” There was light dancing in his eyes, and Salieri stammered.

“I- was using, ah, past librettos of yours, and I didn’t… wish to-” He must look like a fool, he realized, in his waistcoat and unkempt hair, trying to defend what didn’t need defending. His voice died out, yet it only served to make Gassmann chuckle as he walked around to find a seat.

“I’ve had you rewrite entire numbers of mine - this is merely the logical next step. But never mind that!” Salieri’s master finally sat upon a footstool, and Salieri thought it rude to continue standing. Sheepishly, he sat back down at his desk.

“What have you come to see me about, sir?”

Gassmann sighed. “Wolfgang Mozart and his father will attend Ritter von Gluck’s premiere this weekend. But no court performances between now and then, I’m afraid.”

Disheartened, Salieri could only nod. He just wanted to judge the boy himself! See whether or not a future ally was to be had. He leaned back in his seat, flicking his quill away from him.

“Don’t fret, my boy, simply wait until next week. I believe you’ll get a chance, then. I’ll have to see what Emperor Joseph has to say, tomorrow, but I’m sure he’s as curious as you.” Gassmann stood up, going to join him at the desk, eyes scanning what Salieri had finished that night. “I’ll be reviewing this along with your lessons, you know.”

Salieri shyly smiled, and nodded. “Of course, maestro. Thank you.”

Gassmann squeezed his shoulder. “You’ve nothing to worry over, Antonio. Get some sleep tonight.”

Salieri promised he would.

 

Gluck’s premiere was the closest Salieri felt he’d be to the stars. He’d seen the opera bursting with patrons before, but the applause was deafening, the tears when Gluck bowed highlighted in the candlelight. Salieri even stood and bowed with the rest of the ensemble. He felt a part of something epic, greater than he.

Yet still he came to be alone in the foyer. Salieri often found himself self-conscious, but tonight it ate away at him. He’d been given a new suit, partly because he’d outgrown his best, and partly because (as he was starting to realize) Gassmann enjoyed giving him gifts. It was cream, embroidered gold, that was entirely too flashy for Salieri’s personal taste, though admittedly attractive on him. There had even been a gold silk ribbon in his hair to match. Not to mention his height, and all this, factored into Salieri’s distaste for being looked at, made him extremely anxious.

He was bouncing on his heels when someone bumped into him.

“Ah-” Salieri colored when he saw it was a young woman, and he bowed the best he could in a crowd. “I beg your forgiveness, madam.”

Her smile was dazzling, and caused Salieri to feel dizzy. She looked at him with an intensity that struck fear into him, and he desired nothing more than to be smited down. “You have it, sir. I must compliment the state of your dress - very fine.”

Oh dear. She was dressed quite richly, as well. Silk and diamonds - did she believe him to be of noble birth? He took a step back, feeling the air about him growing thin. “Thank you, miss. You must find it in your heart to forgive me again, as I must- leave, yes.”

He turned on his heel, marching straight outside, into the still wintry air. Women captured his attention, and yet he found himself much too socially inept to pay them proper mind. Idiot!

Gassmann found him, near half an hour later, shivering and with a sneeze. “Dear God, Antonio! If you were still a child I’d have you _beaten_ ,” He strode over to his student with a frown on his face, wrapping the cloak Salieri had left behind around him. “Standing out without any covering, are you mad? Have you no _brain?_ ” Salieri could hardly protest as he was lead into their carriage.

It was no surprise when he fell ill the next day; a mere cold, yet between Gassmann’s scolding and doting, it could have been mistaken for something far more grave. Salieri fought a fever and headache the entire day, and it carried on to the next.

He was trying to finish his composition after managing some breakfast when Gassmann came in to see how he was faring. His papers were, unfairly, snatched away. “Maestro!” Salieri’s voice was hoarse, rattling his chest. His guardian shook his head.

“You can hardly hold a quill, anyhow, if this chicken scratch reveals your state.”

Salieri frowned, and leaned back against his pillows. Gassmann was in front of his window, creating a silhouette in the sunlight. “I wanted to do something.” He was growing bored, and detested feeling useless.

“You’ll exert yourself.” Came a muttered reply. Gassmann was overlooking his other pages, and his brow furrowed. “Is this _Psiche_ _?_ You use quite a few of the same melodies.” He moved, to take a seat in the chair he’d left last night as he sat at his ward’s bedside.

“Yes, because I thought changing it too much would lose the same feeling.” Salieri tried to defend his choices, and ended up coughing harshly. Gassmann handed him a handkerchief.

“I’m flattered, but copying something is not the same as paying homage to it. This must be entirely Salieri, _influenced_ by Gassmann, do you see?” He tucked the papers under his arm, and shook his head. “I’m sorry you’ll miss little Mozart’s performance this afternoon.”

Salieri finished his coughing spell, and look towards his window with a sigh. “I’ll have other opportunities, maestro. Do tell me about it, if you would, later.”

Gassmann leaned to pat him on the shoulder. “Of course, my dear boy. You must do me a favor and rest; it’s likely to be one of the few times in your life you’ll be able to.”

What visions Gassmann had in mind for him, Salieri could not understand. He nodded all the same, and did his best to follow such advice. Being idle wasn’t comfortable for Salieri, however, and he convinced a servant to bring him a book in French as to practice his proficiency. Yet his eyes grew weak within a quarter of an hour, and he felt that his fever had risen.

Supper didn’t sit well with Salieri, and in a foul mood and state, he fell asleep.

He awoke in the evening, a violent cough seizing him, sweat beneath his pillows. The maid did her best to soothe Salieri, placing a damp cloth over his forehead. He clutched at her sleeve, wrapping a weak hand around her wrist.

“Is-” He wheezed, “Has maestro returned?”

She shook her head, patting the cloth down his face, pressing a bit against his neck. “No, Herr Salieri.”

That filled Salieri with emotion, and he couldn’t find a true cause for it. His eyes filled with tears, and his throat threatened to close.

In the candlelight, the maid’s eyes appeared to be his mother’s, a mother he hardly remembered.

Salieri cried.

 

A mere cold had made him an easy victim for pneumonia, indisposing Salieri for a fortnight. In his fevered moments, he remembered calling Gassmann _Father_ , and the way his teacher had looked at him.

Gassmann didn’t leave his side.

Salieri had improved enough to take a turn inside the house, though he was explicitly told to wear a dressing gown to keep warm. He was displeased to have been ill, but content enough to be in a state of docility. Gassmann allowed him in the sitting room.

“Are you still wanting to hear of the Mozarts?” The man asked, in a teasing manner, while he sat at the pianoforte, arranging some sheet music. Salieri, happy to hear something possibly exciting, nodded.

“Well, that court performance was indeed attended by the Empress,”

Fever no longer seemed the worst thing to have overtaken Salieri.

“But I’m sure it will delight you to hear Emperor Joseph wished you good health when he spoke to me.” Gassmann stretched his fingers, but was not one to speak while playing if he wasn’t giving instruction. “The Mozarts, though: Herr Mozart dressed plainly, in all black. A severe looking man, although clever enough to bow time and time again to the Empress and Emperor.”

“Did the Empress care for him?” Salieri clutched the arms of the seat as he moved his position. There still remained a rattle in his chest, and his voice was hoarse.

Gassmann lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “The woman is incomprehensible! I don’t believe she was taken with Herr Mozart, but as soon as the son started playing, the music seemed to please her.

Little Wolfgang is rather small for his age, a pale thing, but he was dressed in silk, wearing powder in his hair! A child dandy, of all things- but, he does have talent, I’ll admit that. Herr Mozart had him blindfolded and play, which I don’t approve of at all. Parlor tricks, all that. But, Antonio,” At this Gassmann raised his hand, index finger pointing up to the heavens.

“The reason they’ve come is that Herr Mozart believes his son ready to compose an _opera_.”

Salieri could not fathom such a thing, couldn’t imagine what the consequences could be. “Do you even think that’s possible?”

Gassmann threw up both hands, and turned to the keys. “Why not believe in something so absurd?”

 

An opera composed by a twelve year old talent was not to be, however. It was all the opera house could speak of when Salieri returned, and in the months to follow. He was curious enough to wonder what little Mozart would write, yet aware enough of the bad publicity it could bring. Oh, a prodigy able to sight read sheet music he’d never seen was one thing, but to think he could compose was an entirely different matter.

Singers wouldn’t hear of it, thinking it beneath them to allow a child to write for them. Director Affligio was adamant he would make the premiere a disaster in retaliation should the opera come to fruition.

“Leopold Mozart would write the entire score, anyway, and attempt to peddle off his son as _gifted_.” He complained to Gassmann, one night when joining them for dinner. Salieri thought himself above gossip, yet felt a certain thrill when hearing it. After all, court and opera news alike was bled down through hearsay.

The year drew on. Salieri played continuo on a frequent basis, and was invited for dinner with Gluck on a few separate occasions. He was anonymously the source of an incident concerning the out of tune harpsichord at the opera house - apparently, one could finally get it replaced after jumping  _into_ it. His eighteenth birthday passed, with Gassmann gifting him a few books, and another suit.

In September, scandal truly broke out. Leopold Mozart was _petitioning_ to be paid for his son’s opera that would never be staged. Gassmann was thrown into a fit of laughter when he opened up the letter from his friend at court.

Salieri, swallowing the custard he’d been enjoying, was highly concerned as his master turned red. “Why must you find it so funny, maestro?” He asked, when the man wheezed out what was taking place.

Gassmann shook his head. “Oh - dear, dear boy. No one even commissioned this damned thing!” He wiped away tears falling down his face. “I would be fighting alongside him, maybe, if anyone had, and if the Mozarts were as poor as all their begging made them out to be.”

Salieri remembered a time when he toured the Italian countryside, singing for coin as a youth, and a bitter taste saturated his tongue. The custard had been so rich, too. Gassmann, with a similar background, quickly made to redeem himself.

“I don’t mean to betray our beggar brethren, of course. It’s a disgrace for such a man, a cold, greedy man, to fret about finances when all of Europe’s kings and queens have gifted his son gold, be it in coin or snuff boxes!” He tossed aside the letter, letting it find a home on the dining table, and stretched.

“No matter. If little Wolfgang Mozart grows to be worth all this trouble, he’ll come back to Vienna and prove it _without_ this devil of a man.”

“Maestro,” Salieri was beside himself with want of knowing, “Is Herr Mozart truly that wretched?”

His teacher responded gravely. “It’s my hope you never meet him.”

 

Fate had it that Herr Mozart swept in during rehearsals the next week. His very presence was a distraction, at least to Salieri. The man was a gargoyle, with a disapproving face of stone. Not wishing to test if that face could turn others to stone as well, Salieri turned away.

Gluck was visibly displeased. Holding Ritter von Gluck in the same esteem as Herr Gassmann, Salieri was harboring a negative opinion of Leopold Mozart without directly meeting him. But Gluck was not a man to be easily offended, which lead Salieri to believe Herr Mozart had done something to _earn_ such a negative reputation in Vienna.

Hours ticked by, and the stone faced man sat through all of rehearsal. Finally, the day was done, and Salieri rose from his seat. A chorus girl smiled at him, and he immediately looked away, heart hammering against his chest.

 _A virgin of eighteen, imagine that._ He berated himself as he made his way off stage, in the way only a young man would: by jumping down into the orchestra pit.

Salieri straightened his jacket, and weaved through the musicians to the seats. Above gossip, yet desperate to bear witness to it.

Gluck was muttering in hurried French to Director Affligio when Salieri came to his side.

“Ritter von Gluck, Herr Affligio,” He bowed, and turned to see Herr Mozart striding towards them, an ink spill against the gilded and velvet decor.

“Herr Salieri, I am pleased with your skill at the harpsichord,” Affligio complimented, though his true attention was on Mozart, just as anybody’s was. Still, Salieri thanked him, and was slightly startled when Gluck clasped his shoulder.

“Salieri, remind me sometime that you bring along Gassmann for dinner.” He smiled, lines at his eyes crinkling to give away his generally pleasant demeanor.

“Herr Gluck, Herr Affligio.” A voice graveled, and Salieri paled when he saw Leopold Mozart beside him. They were nearly of height, and Herr Mozart quirked a greyed eyebrow upon seeing that Salieri was the taller of them.

Gluck’s smile had faded: he was prideful about his title, and would never respond to any other. “This is a student of mine, Herr Mozart. May I introduce Antonio Salieri.”

Salieri bowed, and Herr Mozart did not.

“An Italian,” Leopold drawled. “Well, I suppose he’s earned the honor of being a pupil of yours.”

Salieri felt his ears heat, and he frowned. Affligio cut in. “Herr Mozart, I must ask what drew you to our rehearsal this evening.”

 _What makes you think you’re welcome here?_ Thetruemeaning rang in the air, and Salieri found himself excited. Beneath gossip he was obviously not, but a silent observer couldn’t do too harm.

If Salieri thought Empress Maria Theresa’s gaze was the sole thing that frightened him, he was proven wrong when the gargoyle of a man stared right at him, dissipating any enjoyment Salieri might have had. “Perhaps we speak in a more private setting.”

Insulting his heritage and dismissing his importance was enough for Salieri. Before Gluck could protest, Salieri tightly smiled. “I must be getting on, sirs. A pleasure to meet you, Herr Mozart.” He bowed, and made the proper goodbye to his true superiors.

He caught only a fraction of Herr Mozart’s next words, “-he’s running about, my sincerest apologies.”

A thought entered his head, but Salieri brushed it away. A wretched man, indeed! Salieri was already caught between feeling he was Italian and Austrian, and Leopold Mozart had worsened that by ostracizing him.

“Opera would be _nothing_ without Italians,” He bitterly spoke to himself, in a brief instance where he truly spoke his mother tongue. Salieri’s German was fair, but he frequently integrated Italian into his speech. It was another mark of his duality.

He did not bother waiting for the coach, deciding a walk would cool his temper. The streets were wet, and Salieri was sure he was getting mud on his stockings, but the walk did clear his head.

His opinion of Leopold Mozart remained the same.

 

In December, Vienna breathed a sigh of relief. The Mozarts had left. Salieri hadn’t realized it had been the entire family, having heard only of Wolfgang Mozart and his father being taken at court. Those performances, however, were closed to them after the drama of the promised opera. Private concerts were enough to have kept the family there, yet Salieri had remained ignorant to the prodigy’s talent.

“Do you think they’ll return soon?” Salieri was eying the night’s dessert with a keen interest - chocolate mousse. Gassmann was spooning out a portion of his own, and shook his head.

“If that man has any _sense_ , he’ll know it’s best for his son if he stays away.”


	2. 1773.

Vienna swelled in the summer heat. Antonio Salieri stepped away from the window and drew the curtains closed.

His mentor shuddered despite the weather, and the doctor peered up.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to bleed him again this evening.”

Salieri frowned. “That’s the third time in two weeks - what good has it done him?” He went to feel Gassmann’s forehead, and the poor man groaned in pain. “His fever still hasn’t broken.”

The doctor nodded. “That’s why I must bleed him, sir. It will divert the heated blood.”

Men of medicine were growing to upset Salieri more than he felt necessary, and he squeezed his adopted father’s hand before excusing himself.

He went down the stairs in a hurry. Perhaps the lack of his presence would allow the doctor to think of something  _ else _ . That much blood worried Salieri. He took his hat, and told the maid he’d return in an hour or so.

The choir was practicing in the church next to his home, which lifted his spirits somewhat. Voices pleased him in a way different to the music that generally accompanied them. Salieri was not directly needed in the opera house today, and judged the park a good destination.

Lord! The heat was thick, and Salieri fought the desire to be rid of his neckcloth. Great ladies brought out their fans and eyed the common women with jealousy, as they could get away with tucking their skirts up into their belts. Sweat glistened off faces and clung to bodies.

The park was still less sweltering than indoors had been. Trees shaded Salieri’s path, and he audibly sighed. 

A young woman passed him as he did, and she gave him a smile worn only by coy youth. Salieri returned it with a closed grin of his own, and boldly followed her eyes as she walked away.

He didn’t think himself a flirt, but knew women found him charming. Even his manner of speech (which Salieri still found weak, with his German) made him modestly popular with women of note. He supposed he wasn’t terrible in appearance, either.

Pride had never possessed Salieri, but he was enchanted by the opposite sex. The only reason he hadn’t yet  _ known _ a woman was because of his growing realization that members of his own sex piqued the same interest. Where there was a lovely woman in the park, there was a lovely man on a bench or playing the violin for coins in the street.

He ached! To know of love as played out on the stage of what he secretly referred to as  _ his _ opera. A love that could drive one mad with jealousy. Oh, he could write for such things; his composition for _ La Locandiera _ had just premiered in June. And while that particular work was proving popular, what did love and its troubles mean to Salieri?

He finished his walk and bought a few thirsty flowers from a girl selling them out of a basket on the street. Salieri didn’t know what type they were, but they were an attractive blue. He decided on keeping a bloom for himself, and the rest at Gassmann’s bedside.

The doctor crossed paths with him on the way home, and Salieri fought to keep his face neutral. “I’ll return tonight, Herr Salieri. Herr Gassmann-”

“I don’t want you to bleed him, sir. Wait another week if you will.” In a rare instance, Salieri’s voice became hard. 

The doctor was startled, eyes wide behind spectacles. “But sir-”

“I know nothing of medicine, yet I can see when a man needs his rest. Good day, sir. You will come back, but you will not be bleeding my guardian.” That was final, and Salieri bowed briefly before continuing his way. 

The maid, Emilia, beamed upon seeing Salieri’s flowers. “Oh, sir, my mother used to grow cornflowers!”

So they were cornflowers.

Salieri could not help but smile, however, and handed off most of the little bouquet to her. “These are for Herr Gassmann.”

Her eyes danced. “And that one?” She pointed at the cornflower clasped in his left hand. “Keeping it for a sweetheart?”

Salieri chuckled and shook his head. “No, but perhaps you are wanting that to be you?” He rolled the stem with his fingers. Emilia laughed, herself.

“I’d never accept it, sir!” She replied, already headed to find a vase for Gassmann’s. “And Herr Salieri,” She turned upon remembering. “There is a letter for you in the dining room. I did not know where else to put it down.”

Salieri was suddenly curious. “That’s perfect, thank you.”

She nodded, and Salieri went off, still spinning the flower in his left hand.

Perched on the dining table was a folded parchment, sealed with bright red wax. Blue petals joined its side before Salieri picked it up.

Breaking the seal, Salieri wondered when he’d last heard from Herr Bonno at court. Surely not in the past two months-

His mouth ran dry, and despite the Vienna summer, Salieri felt chilled.

 

Gluck’s sitting room was  _ extremely _ French in taste, and the only solace Salieri found in that particular preference were the dishes of chocolate bonbons scattered about. He hadn’t yet gotten a taste, as he was occupied with pacing.

“You’ve heard  _ Lucio Silla? _ I bought the print the moment it arrived in Vienna.” Salieri twisted the signet ring on his pinky while he attempted to contain himself. 

Gluck, in his leisure, sighed. “Yes, the same to all other works you’ve mentioned. I don’t see why this makes you pace so! Sit down, you’re upsetting me.”

Wanting anything other than  _ that _ , Salieri complied. A silver dish of bonbons was presented to him. “Soothe your silly fears, Antonio.”

Salieri sheepishly took one, and then another upon seeing Gluck’s give him a pointed look. A number of incidents concerning dessert at Gluck’s dinners had given Salieri a well-known reputation in his household.

He spoke evenly after eating the first sweet. “I want him in Vienna, I really feel I do.” Wolfgang Mozart, come again to a city that tired of him within months. Yet perhaps now it’d be different. Save for…

“Leopold Mozart is what causes me distress,” Salieri admitted, remembering a gaze Medusa would admire. “I encountered him only once.”

“Bah!” Gluck grumbled as he set aside the silver dish. “That’s an encounter too many.”

Salieri couldn’t help but agree. “Why have they even come? I don’t doubt Mozart’s capabilities as I might have when he was a child, but isn’t Salzburg enough for a teenager?”

Wolfgang Mozart was now the same age Salieri had been when the prodigy came to Vienna. As soon as Salieri realized that, he saw how obtuse his statement was. Of course, a seventeen-year-old would want to break out of their hometown, out of their father’s grip.

Gassmann was still doing poorly. His was a grip Salieri did not yet want to lose.

Gluck said just as much. “You premiered your first work at _ nineteen,  _ Salieri. Though Mozart has already written and performed, he hasn’t garnered what you have: public adoration. I feel his father is seeking him a post, but perhaps Mozart is seeking what all artists desire.”

Salieri stood up again, cross. “Fame, sir? He’s played for every royal family in Europe! Is that not satisfying for him? Why must he come to Vienna, when-”

He paled. The Kapellmeister lay ill in his own home.

“That _ bastard, _ ” He seethed, startling Ritter von Gluck.

“Salieri!” The man chastised as a teacher would upon hearing a schoolboy speak vulgar in class. His student, however, didn’t pay any mind and took to his pacing again in front of the chair.

“Leopold Mozart searches for a position for his son! They heard of Herr Gassmann’s poor health!” Salieri was piecing it together in his head, and  _ oh, _ did it fit! The image of that menacing old man in black, his disdain for those he felt sabotaged his gifted boy. 

Gluck had decided to stand as well, holding up his hands to possibly calm Salieri. “You can’t believe-”

“Don’t you see it, sir? Herr Mozart thinks his son will be the next Kapellmeister!” That had to be it, had to be why Giuseppe Bonno wrote to him. As Court Composer, if Gassmann passed, Bonno was likely to be appointed the next Kapellmeister. But he was also on friendly terms with Gassmann - he didn’t see this scheme just as an affront to what was to be his. Waiting for an old man to  _ die, _ did this Leopold know nothing of propriety-

Gluck shook him by his shoulders, having no more of his hurried, mixed speech. “Antonio!” He spoke roughly, squeezing Salieri’s arms as to put some sense into him. “Do you even hear yourself? Herr Mozart is a fiend, but I don’t think we should judge him so low.”

Gluck released him, and Salieri felt shame spread through his chest. “I- forgive me, Ritter von Gluck.” He began to twist at his ring again, sitting down. “I worry for Herr Gassmann, perhaps too much.”

“No, Salieri. One can never worry too much for family. You love him as much, yes?”

He nodded, though he knew that Gluck already understood that.

“Then, dear fellow, love him! Care for him! He’ll certainly make it through, as he always has, and always will. Herr Gassmann will die of old age, warm in his bed, next to his wife, after visiting your home full of all the little brats you’ll end up having.”

At this, Salieri smiled, cheeks warming. “I would certainly like that, sir.”

Gluck laughed. “Wouldn’t us all?”

 

The evening brought with it a blessing of cooler temperatures. Salieri had taken the carriage to Gluck’s, in his impulsive dash to find a place to rant and rave. Yet still, once home, he found a way to enjoy the pleasant air, by opening up a few windows. Gassmann’s was the last of those he opened, and Salieri immediately went to his chair at the man’s bedside.

“How fares my boy?” Gassmann rasped, sitting up against a hoard of pillows. Salieri deemed it only fitting to leave out his episode at Gluck’s.

“Very well, though I’ll feel even better once you do.” A touch sad, Salieri smiled, placing a hand atop Gassmann’s.

His guardian was not one to be fooled, however. “There’s something else. I may be in a poor state, but I can hear when someone’s running about the house. Were you upset? Might have a woman called on you, and you had no mind to be  _ rash- _ ” At this Gassmann wheezed, coughed a moment. “Rational?”

He’d been closer to the mark before he finished his words. Salieri controlled the heating of his face, instead thinking of the cool air being let in. “Herr Bonno wrote to me,”

“Ha!” Gassmann’s laugh was hoarse but as loud as it ever had been. “The old fool. No doubt something scandalous happened at court. Tell me, did Emperor Joseph have to keep his mother from banning all the Jews?”

Salieri shook his head, still both mortified and impressed Gassmann could speak of the Empress in such a way. The years did nothing to abate his fear. “Ah, sir, it appears that the Mozarts are paying Vienna a visit.” He spoke gently, but firm enough that the maestro would know it to be no jest.

Gassmann’s smile fell, and he sank against the pillows, echoing what Salieri had said so violently earlier.

“That  _ bastard. _ ’

It was no more than a whisper, and it broke Salieri’s heart.

 

Approaching August, Salieri could just nearly forget that, somewhere, the sun was casting the shadow of Mozart upon Vienna. He was caught up in rehearsals, in performances, and the ever-present thought that Gassmann would leave him. The man would go through spells; a few days and he’d seem spritely, the next few, he’d be weak and feverish.

Salieri allowed him to be bled just once more.

Thankfully, it was during a hopeful recovery when Salieri held an invitation in his hands. Pietro Metastasio was another figure integral to Salieri’s creative world, and he had invited Salieri for one of his dinner parties. The librettist was rather popular among the Viennese elite, and it was rather lucky for Salieri that Metastasio was publically supportive of his works thus far.

He broke the wax seal just as he entered Gassmann’s room. The older man had on a pair of spectacles and was pouting his lips at some papers.

“Maestro,” Salieri chided. He didn’t want him to exhaust himself. Gassmann waved a hand at him dismissively, and Salieri took his seat next to the bed.

“Anything worthy to share with an invalid?”

Salieri’s eyes were still scanning the letter. An invitation, indeed. But something else-

“Herr Metastasio has invited me over to the Martinez home for one of his parties.” He started with, a cacophony of emotion playing out in his chest. 

Gassmann _ hmphed. _ He likely knew where this was headed. “And I assume the Martinez family have also brought the Mozarts to their hearth?”

Salieri nodded, folding the letter in one hand. “I believe it proper to visit.” He leaned forward, hand upon a knee. “You know that I’d stay with you, if-”

“No, Antonio,” Gassmann pointedly looked at him, spectacles perched at the end of his nose. “You’d not stay with me because I’d refuse it. Of course you’ll go. You’ll be a proper gentleman, you’ll squeeze a compliment out of that Leopold Mozart, and perhaps you’ll enjoy the company of a man your age for once.”

Salieri could not help that he was yet comfortable around men his age, for a multitude of reasons. “If you insist, maestro.” He did nothing to fight his smile, and Gassmann patted his forearm.

He spent the rest of the afternoon in a compromise, reading Gassmann’s letters aloud to him, so that his guardian might have some rest.

 

Age had brought with it some appreciation of social gatherings. Salieri was composed for Metastasio’s engagement. That didn’t mean he wouldn’t tire of a party, but he understood the social importance of making an appearance. In lieu of Gassmann, Vienna and its elite turned their eyes towards Antonio Salieri, and sought to dig their claws into him. He would gratify them to an extent.

Besides, Salieri found the old poet in Metastasio enjoyable to be around. As with many of the older men around him, he could learn a thing or two from him. 

Salieri could never cease to be opera’s student.

He didn’t care for the lonely carriage ride, as it allowed him to think too much about the evening’s possible outcomes. His admiration of Wolfgang Mozart was no secret, yet he had no desire to embarrass himself, or the teenager. Salieri would compliment his works, they would have a conversation after dinner, and the night would end on a note that promised future friendship. Yes - Salieri could picture it, though the Mozart in his vision did not yet have a face.

A smile lifted Salieri’s spirits once the carriage stopped, and he hardly allowed the driver to open the door before he was out. “Herr Metastasio!” He exclaimed, and the elder man, much shorter than Salieri by a head and a half, threw his arms around him.

“Salieri! It pleases me to no end that you’ve come; tell the old man I’ll hate him forever.” Metastasio teased, squeezing Salieri’s arms as he looked him over. “Have you a mistress at court yet?”

Salieri shook his head, the librettist leading him inside. “No, sir. I find myself far too busy to give proper attention to a lady.” He took off his tricorn once he passed the threshold, handing it off to a footman. 

Metastasio clapped him on the shoulder. “A proper lady doesn’t always make for a good tumble!” He was seventy-five, and could speak as he wanted. It only served to make Salieri blush.

“Sir, the virtue of love prevents me from lusting after any maid on the street.” He lied, knowing very well that it was simply maids  _ and _ men that made it difficult. His host chuckled, and leaned in to him. 

“There isn’t a young man in the world that doesn’t lust after bodies in the street.” Metastasio winked, and lead Salieri into a sitting room. 

He’d met the Martinez family before, but that didn’t stop Frau Martinez, a most handsome older woman, from embracing him warmly. “Dear Salieri,” She spoke, keeping her hands atop his, “I hope Herr Gassmann knows he’s in our prayers.”

“I’m sure he does, madame, as his health is improving.” He assured, nodding his head in greeting towards her husband. As a polite member of society, Salieri was desperately trying to keep himself from looking through those milling about the room, searching for the young man he wanted to meet. No, unfortunately, he’d have to remain respectable. 

He did, however, eye Metastasio, who had disappeared to chat to someone that remained seated in an armchair. Salieri felt as though he knew who that person might be, and subsequently was proven correct, paling when the man rose and turned.

Medusa was still Leopold Mozart’s mistress. Time had only etched in more lines into that disapproving visage. Perhaps most terrifying, though, was that Herr Mozart attempted to smile. Being chilled out of Vienna all those years ago had left an impression.

Salieri felt like he’d be eaten, even though he calmly excused himself from the Martinez couple to be introduced.

“Herr Mozart,” Metastasio said. “It pleases me to introduce Emperor Joseph’s  _ protege,  _ Antonio Salieri.”

Salieri controlled his immediate reaction to frown, as he was uncomfortable to be referred to as such. It was true that he entertained a friendly relationship with the Emperor, and was apart of his musical chamber, yet…

“What a great honor that must be, Herr Salieri.” Leopold Mozart spoke through his maniacal grin, bowing just enough for satisfaction. 

“It certainly is, Herr Mozart.” He’d not give this man any inkling of the constant, though dull, feeling of inadequacy he had. “Emperor Joseph is a kind man, and a willing student, as well.” Some pride crept in:  _ ha! Has your son taught royalty yet, sir? _

Speaking of the son-

“Herr Wolfgang! Nice of you to join us.” Metastasio beckoned, and Salieri turned to put a face to the vision he had in his head.

_ Good Lord, he’s as pale as a ghost. _

Salieri was reminded often of his height, and Mozart stood a full head below him. Again, he was pale, a handful of scars on his face suggesting he’d survived smallpox. But he was grinning like a madman, and his eyes were a clear, bright blue. Mozart was dressed in fashion, though it was far more gaudy than Salieri’s tastes. Purple breeches, and a loud, bright blue jacket, a waistcoat to match.

“Papa, Herr Metastasio,” Mozart greeted, taking notice of the guest. Salieri pushed aside his surprise at the young man’s appearance, and gave a gracious bow.

“Herr Salieri; it’s an honor to meet you, Herr Mozart.” 

A most bewildered look crossed the teenager’s face, before those blue eyes widened. “Ah! You wrote the opera that’s been popular in town, haven’t you?”

A tad awkwardly, Salieri nodded. “Er-yes. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of having your or your father in my audience as of yet, however.”

Leopold Mozart coughed, and Salieri darkly thought about cursing him. The son continued his talk. “Haven’t had the chance to, good sir. I’ve been searching about for a post.”

Salieri’s polite smile fell, and Metastasio noticed it. The librettist excused himself, and managed to get the elder Mozart to come with him. What was the purpose of leaving Salieri, and his horrible fears, alone with Mozart?

“A post.” Salieri echoed. “I hope you may find something that pleases you, though many of the Emperor’s court positions are full.”

Mozart’s eyes were trailing off, though he stayed at Salieri’s side. He seemed rather interested in a particular servant girl. The older man could have rolled his eyes. He’d expected… too much.

A pale hand waved, shooing off Salieri’s statement. His sleeves were trimmed with an absurd amount of lace. “Such is the way of courts. I was rather hoping for the role of Kapellmeister, though it wouldn’t-”

In an instant where Salieri’s temperament flared, he immediately cut off this  _ dandy _ of a mere  _ child. _ “Herr Mozart, I must object, because you’ve insulted me.”

Mozart now looked at him, surprised. “I’ve insulted you, sir?”

“My guardian is Herr Gassmann,” At this, the teen realized his mistake, though Salieri continued. “And I will hear of no other Kapellmeister while he’s still well.”

Mozart appeared cross. “I meant no ill intentions, as we came here to Vienna having already heard-”

Rumors that Gassmann was dead? Polite member of society or not, Salieri shook his head. “Herr Mozart, you are young. I will forget this matter of slight, and I do hope you are able to find something that pleases you in Vienna.”

He excused himself, disappointed.

 

Wolfgang Mozart appeared to have forgotten all about their exchange within half an hour, while Salieri simmered. Metastasio appeared at his side, to hand him a drink, and speak to him.

“Herr Mozart is none too pleased you had words with his son.” He spoke lowly in Italian. Unlike Salieri, whose Italian had never quite lost its fervor, his was laced with a German accent. Salieri did roll his eyes, now, knowing Metastasio would forgive him for it.

“His  _ son _ should mind his tongue.” Salieri took a drink, and immediately wished he hadn’t, for it wasn’t a wine or spirit he was familiar with. He forced himself to swallow, grimacing as he did.

“What did you expect? He’s a boy.” Metastasio spoke as though that excused him, and Salieri shook his head.

“I was never that flippant with my elders.”

“Because you had a different upbringing!” The elderly man scoffed, though he was pleased with the drink that had burned Salieri’s throat in an unpleasant manner. “Now, considering the only one who feels insulted isn’t even the party that ran his mouth in the first place, I suggest you try to enjoy yourself.” He left him for a moment, and Salieri frowned into his glass, before Frau Martinez joined him.

Outwardly, Salieri conducted himself as though he was finding enjoyment. Yet, inwardly, he berated himself, for placing such youth on a pedestal. Of course, he had to have been correct in what Gluck considered “low assumptions”. They had proven true! Mozart’s loose tongue gave that away. Such talent resided in that head, but it was now tainted by the influence of the father. No matter how that talent would continue to grow, Salieri could not forgive this.

And at the end of the night, when Mozart performed at the harpsichord, Salieri could not forgive himself for still finding brilliance there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Mozart visit to Vienna in 1773 lasted from July 14 to September 26. I simply thought it best to end off at the night's "conclusion", instead of throwing the Mozarts' departure into a separate paragraph.   
> Sorry for the wait! I'm in my second semester of university, and studying does take up my time. Thank you for being patient, and feedback is always appreciated!


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